Little Blues! There is a special Hell for this man and his fellows.
I left him and the wife and went to another bridge, not far off, and leaning upon the rail I asked myself what in the name of insanity was this man doing, and what in the name of stupidity are we doing to let him do it? By his own confession this is going on all over the country. There are thousands of these respectable miscreants in our midst steadily "working out" the Duke of Burgundy Fritillary. They dignify their proceedings by the name of Entomology. The boy who robs a bird's nest might call himself an Ornithologist, but that would be no reply to a prosecution under the Wild Birds' Protection Act. Why is a White Admiral less worthy of protection than a golden-crested wren? It is not for me to say which is the more beautiful of the two. But if it is thought good to prevent any madman who chooses from going forth in the breeding season to the indiscriminate slaughter of golden-crested wrens and ger-falcons, why do we loose him upon the White Admirals during the short time they have on earth in which to propagate their species? If Parliament cannot contemplate a birdless England, with what drug—save that of unthinkingness—does it blind its eyes to an England without butterflies and without moths?
